The 7th Circle
by Etemenanki
Summary: The papers wrote it was tragic and shocking and horrible. But, oh, they were wrong.  It was a love letter.     Post-Reichenbach Fall   not yet beta'd
1. Part I

**The 7th Circle  
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**I.**

The curtain fell. The sun rose. The show began.

_Suicide at Westminster Abby. Fire in Oxford Street. And a man in a record store. _

_A hanged man swinging before those large windows, white curtains behind the blurring glass. The note said: Falling is just like flying. So, if I cannot fly, I shall fall. _

_The fire killed five people. Two children, two women, one man. _

_The papers wrote it was tragic and shocking and horrible. But, oh, they were wrong. _

_It was a love letter. _

Jim smiled as the owner of the store put on a vinyl and watched him as he sung along with a low voice.

"The age of innocence has abandoned me for a while", he sung. Jim came closer.

_A few days later he received a vinyl of Staying Alive and a short note that said: Isn't it boring?_

_It was an invitation. And not hard finding out where to go._

"And o' the pain you will cause me, can't compare with the bliss of knowing your murderous smile", the man continued, slightly out of tune. Then looking up at him.

"Oh dear", Jim said, "never thought you had a taste for eighties music."

"I don't", answered Sherlock.

They looked at each other, he could see his reflection in Sherlock's cold blue eyes. They kept silent for another heart beat. Sherlock wore his usual trousers, an old black shirt and his scarf. Oh what would Sherlock Holmes do without his scarf!

Jim trembled, but only a bit.

"I missed you", he said low, stretching the syllables in his Irish accent. He turned around slowly, moving his head to the side so he could still see Sherlock.

"Thought you might do the first move."

As the other did not respond he turned around again, stepping closer to him. Sherlock looked down to him, his face motionless. In the background the song continued: "Guilty of filth I share, in your pleasure. Neither awake nor alive, in your bosom where I would kill even myself."

"Oh that was a nice line, don't you think, darling? 'Where I would kill even myself', very nice indeed. It occurs to me you chose that song! Well that's an improvement." The last sentence he spoke in a high pitched voice. His eyes opened a bit more and a smile spread across his lips.

"Don't flatter yourself", Sherlock replied chuntering. "I knew you knew."

"Changing the subject m'dear? Well, of course you knew I wasn't all lying dead with a bullet in my brilliant brain. But you didn't know I knew that you'd fake it."

"I did know", he said.

"Liar", Jim hummed.

"Don't –"

"Getting angry? Oh, can we just skip that part?"

"What do you want?"

"I? You invited me. Come on, do what you do best. Think. What do you want, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock looked around, but apparently no-one else was in any longer, so no-one could have heard this.

"I want to see you in chains, I want you punished, I –" Jim twisted his mouth.

"Again you lie. Did your mother not taught you good behaviour?"

Sherlock did not reply.

"Well, make your mind up, I shall go", he said, turned around and went to the door. Just as he was about to open it, Sherlock said: "Turn the sign. Closed."

Jim grinned. The song ended. Silence.

"Come back here", said Sherlock sharply and Jim did as he commanded.

"So, let's try it again, honey, what do you want?"

This time it was Sherlock's part to move closer. Hot breath on his face.

"I am here because you forced me to. Now I shall show you what's it like to shake hands with me in hell."

"Is that a promise?", Jim whispered.

"It is."

The barely lit room seemed to engulf them. The sun behind the windows was a red fire ball, the clouds on fire, black ash in the sky.

You don't know how to go on. You're afraid. Afraid of what you want. Because you do know, since our conversation on the roof. You do know.

He did not say it. But he was sure Sherlock could read his thoughts just as they infiltrated his mind, as the bliss of this knowledge filled his gaze again. He can hardly breathe, he can hardly move. He was in ecstasy. The only difference between them was, he enjoyed the ecstasy and Sherlock dreaded it.

"Don't be afraid. We were made for each other."

"So you said before."

Jim knew that Sherlock knew he would kill all of them. No matter whether he kill him first, all was set in motion. He could not stop it before it was too late.

"You know I don't want to force you." Jim, suddenly tender.

"Yes you do."

"I DON'T!", he screamed and turned around abruptly.

"Our game may continue. If you leave them out of it", said Sherlock. His voice was slightly shaking.

"All you wish, my darling", Jim said low, stretching the syllables again. Then he can feel Sherlock's breath in his neck. He can feel the warmth of his body not an inch away.

"So here we are again… Sher-lock", Jim said in a sing-song voice, a shiver running down his spine.

"Only the two of us. Believe me, it's the best thing that's ever happened to you." He turned around and looked up into Sherlock's icy blue eyes, filled with greed and fear and lust.

The song Sherlock sings along with is "The Loving Face" by Christian Death


	2. Part II

II.

Jim let himself fall. It was dangerous and something he had never done before. But he can not resist. And maybe that was what drew him closer. Every time. He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

He remembered the man singing. Sherlock Holmes did not sing – except for a reason. He remembered the words. The age of innocence has abandoned me for a while.

Sherlock was not on the sides of the angles any longer. For a while.

And o' the pain you will cause me, can't compare with the bliss of knowing your murderous smile.

The bliss of his own, of Jim Moriarty's, murderous smile.

It was all very obvious, wasn't it? It wasn't.

Jim knew that Sherlock did not lie to him in the record store. He had not known Jim would survive. And yet he did not return to his life in Backer Street. Why wouldn't he? Had he suspected him to be alive? Possibly so. He stayed away from his home to protect his little pet, the old lady and the stupid policeman then. But again, Sherlock Holmes was not an obvious man. He was him.

I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn.

Oh yes, at last he was him. So Sherlock had his own little thing going for which he needed some distance to his usual life. Interesting. Was Mycroft Holmes involved? Doubtful. He was not his brother. He did not need his brother.

"Oh dear, that means just the two of us this time", he whispered low to himself. "How delightful!"

Fortunately he had his plans, too. He always had a plan.

Though, this game would be different, wouldn't it?

By the end, they would shake hands in hell.

He let himself fall. It was dangerous, he knew it well. He knew, but he could not stop this disgracefully arousing feeling.

Needles for my eyeballs. Knives for my tongue. Cut it out, cut it out!

Yes, very much so. Go on. Take me apart. Oh sweetheart, you have no idea. NO IDEA.

He breathed laboured, it felt like dying. That was what Sherlock Holmes made him feel.

Jim slowly opened his eyes and laughed. A dark and raspy laugh.

He knew it was dangerous. And also the only thing worth living for.

His turn to send an invitation.

He knew Sherlock would like it. As the glass front of Barclays exploded and made the world full of shimmering, translucent glass-daggers and dirt and fire and papers. The air swollen with a sugar pandemonium.

I would set whole London ablaze, for you, honey. And I will.

He typed:

Play havoc with me. - JM

And he knew it was dangerous. He knew Sherlock Holmes was not any longer bound by the moral compass of his doctor. No, this was Sherlock Holmes in his purest and most cruel state. This was Sherlock Holmes burning.

For a moment he wondered whether the detective could burn him. Whether the flames could devour him. A pleasant shiver run down his back. Oh yes, that was exactly what he wanted. To feel the thrill, to feel the competition. To feel the game.

You've unleashed me, he thought, you, you you.

He breathed in slowly, turned around from the chaos, from the cries that still polluted the air in the most wonderful way.

I wish I could eat you, every tiny little bit of your mind.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out.

Should I be impressed? - SH

He typed:

Only the prologos in heaven, darling. - JM

A second later:

What's the bet? - SH

He typed:

I will tell you at dinner. - JM

He walked out of the building. He was just another stranger in panic on the streets. Then he was in a cab, telling the driver with shaking voice where to go.

His phone again.

You know they actually didn't bet? - SH

Jim grinned. Oh, good old smart-arse Sherlock.

The driver stopped, he paid him and just walked down the street, stopped and typed.

I do know, my dear, I do know it. Now open the door, will you? - JM

He looked at the little house, its front, stained grey by exhaust fumes, at the rusty door handle, counted one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, now come on and open, thirteen, the bloody, fourteen, door, fivete– the door opened.

"Evening", said Sherlock. Red rimmed eyes and a crumpled, dirty shirt.

"Dear me. You look horrible", he said, stretching the syllables in his Irish accent.

Sherlock's mouth twisted and before he could change his mind Jim stepped in.

"Is this another disguise of yours?", he asked raising an eyebrow.

"Do you want tea?"

"Always."


	3. Part III

III.

The smell of peppermint tea filled the room. Jim sat on a rather uncomfortable wooden chair and watched as Sherlock entered the room again with the tea.

"So here are we again", said Jim and smiled gleefully, Sherlock sat down.

"What do you want, Moriarty?"

"It's Jim. I just wanted to pay you a short visit, you know that 'I was in the area and wanted to say hello' thing." His smile spread wider.

"I sincerely doubt that."

"Yeah, OK and I wanted to make you a little present."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, but Jim just took the cup and slowly drank. Then he took a little piece of paper out of his suit jacket. It was a photograph.

"29 years old, probably a journalist, as every journalist out of money, left handed … who is he?"

"That, darling, is for you to find out. I'm sure it won't take you long."

Sherlock looked at him with a frown, then he leaned in closer.

"Give me a good reason why", he said, his blue eyes glistening in the dim light of the evening sun. His voice was only a whisper.

"Oh, we both know I don't need to. You were waiting for me to end your boredom, you're desperate to solve another of my little puzzles, aren't you?"

Sherlock's term to drink.

"Let's be honest to each other, shall we? You contacted me after my little love letter, you accepted our game before you even said so."

"Possibly."

"Very possibly! Sherlock, Sherlock, you are nothing anymore. Your whole identity has fallen apart. And as I said, in the end it was easy. Doesn't matter whether you really died or not. Well, except for me of course."

"It was not for you I survived."

"But it was for me you died." Now Jim leaned in, too, slowly sliding the photograph to Sherlock.

"Take it, honey. Do what Daddy wants you to."

Sherlock only looked at him, there were words on this tongue, but he didn't speak them, Jim could see. Instead he smiled. And it was this smile that made him feel high, made him light and heavy at the same time. To see Sherlock smile was like looking into a mirror.

There he was, all cold-eyes and dirty mouth. So exciting and so familiar.

"Make me do it", Sherlock whispered.

His dark and low voice sent a shiver down Jim's spine. These were the moments he was alive. The moments when Sherlock Holmes was close, was in reach. Then he reached out for him. He stood up and walked around the table. Sherlock didn't move. Did not even look up. The proud one, the greedy one.

It was breathtaking. It felt so different, when he put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. When he leaned down. When his lips nearly touched his ears as he hummed: "I am in the air now, I am in your lungs, I am written, I am spoked by a million flaming tongues. I am the sun before you see me rise, I burn still when you close your eyes. I am inside of you, in spite of you."

Then his lips finally touched Sherlock's ear and he could feel him shivering. And all the bliss he had felt on the roof came calling for him. His fingers tightened.

He could hear and feel Sherlock breathe in. The moment lingered on a heartbeat longer and they both knew: they stood on the edge together. Again the sun was going down. The air filled with dancing dust and the sound of them breathing out. And they stepped over the edge and fell when Sherlock rose from his chair.

All words were taken from their lips as Sherlock pushed him against the wall. The wall cold against his back and Sherlock's breathe hot on his face. He was hated and yearned for by this man. And he knew they would shake hands in hell.

"I promise you to kill all your boredom", he said. Then he pulled Sherlock closer.

Their kiss was wet and full of anger and need. It was not nearly enough. He wanted to devour this man completely, this mind, this life, all of him. Sherlock's body pressed against his own.

He could end this right here. But it was the second time in his life he wanted to die as much as he wanted to stay alive. Everything fell from him for a moment.

The room filled with whispering twilight, mixing with the scent of peppermint tea. And the shadows laughed at them.

Sherlock took a step back.

The detective stared at him as if Jim was the devil himself. And maybe he was.

"This is a game", Sherlock said coolly, yet searching for control. A flush on his cheeks.

"It always was", he replied and as he licked over his lips they tasted like Sherlock.

"Now, darling, do as I told you. Solve the puzzle and I'll pay you another visit."

He looked around in the room that was not unfamiliar to him. Still as untidy and chaotic as always. Even worse than it had been in 221B, now that the detective was on his own.

"Get out."

"No rush."

"Get out. Now."

Jim laughed and went to the door. He opened it, but turned around again. The look Sherlock gave him made him smile. So full of passionate anger. Lovely.

"You and me could write a bad romance", he said. His smile spreading to a grin. He was out before the cup crashed against the door.

The air outside was cold and fresh.

It made all that happened in Sherlock's apartment seem unreal, caught in dizzy heat.

The darkness engulfed him for a few precious seconds. His eyes closed he walked blinded. London's night around and the taste of Sherlock inside him.

He opened his eyes again.

Nothing will satisfy me, but your soul, he thought.

Back in his own apartment he sat down on the floor without turning on the light.

He felt vulnerable and fragile. Maybe he was. It was cold here, too. If he stood up and walked up to the window he could look over whole London. But what did London or the world mean to him.

Shatter me, he thought, or else I will shatter all of you.

I will tear you apart. Until nothing's left of you. And you're mine for the taking.

I will devour you completely.

He didn't go to bed. He laid himself to sleep on the cold floor. He hummed himself to sleep until he felt numb and silent and empty inside.

But the air and the floor and the room whispered: Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.


End file.
